Interregnum
by BornASoulReaper
Summary: Where Uriel VII did not die in the catacombs of the Imperial City, the Empire bleeds without an Emperor, and the men and women who rule in the shadows each move for the Ruby Throne, while the forces of Oblivion draw ever closer. A tale told through the eyes of a number of characters. Rated for profanity/violence, may change later on. Re-uploaded after major edit (24/11).


**ALESS**

He had stormed out of the Great Hall almost an hour before, and stood next to the crackling brazier, shivering and fidgeting in a bid to get warm. Skingrad was often cold at night. The Weald was by no means a cold region, but it felt to him that like the castle, the city itself drew in the cold, drawing it around itself like one might a shroud. _Approapriate,_ he thought, looking at the walls of the city, carved out of shadow, and then behind and upwards to the castle, to her spires spearing the sky like daggers and the rustling banners that blurred into waterfalls of blood in the night.

The guard beside him said nothing. If he had had objections about Aless coming outside, he did not voice them. He had looked surprised when Aless had come out of the Great Hall, his face contorted in what could be nothing but abject rage, but the guard – Dalton, if memory served – had held his tongue.

Perhaps his only consolation was that the Great Hall wouldn't be warmer, even if they had more than one hearth lit. Not to him. If he had his wish, he'd never again enter that thrice-damned hall, never put food down for the lords and ladies with their fake courtesies.

A memory struck him then, one so gut-wrenching that it almost drove him to tears. He felt his father's strong arms cling around him, well-muscled from his years as a soldier. His father whispered his mother's words in his ear, and drew back to grin at him. That smile could melt away all the world's wrongs, he remembered, and when his father was near him no word or blade could harm him. He saw the court, when the news of the Count's death had been announced, and a steward had been elected. He remembered feeling proud, so very proud, that his father was finally where he wished to be. And everything was right.

But the memories of dissent still rang strong in his mind. More than once he cried, worried for himself, his father and his city as wars raged in the north, the east, and the south, amid rumours of foul creatures that began to inhabit the Imperial City by Uriel Septim the Seventh's order. Some among them wished to reform to the Kingdom of Colovia that once were. Many fought to keep the Empire intact. It didn't matter – they got his father to the same place.

From his place in the courtyard, Aless could see the whole of Skingrad and the Weald – all the world, it seemed – spread out before him like a map on a table. It was a map he wanted to grab, twist, and shred. Even if he could, though, somewhere among the graves of traitors and brave men who died for their city, were the graves of his father and mother, unmarked and entirely unremembered. Those were something he'd never harm.

So he stood for an hour or more, lost in his recollections, until the door creaked open behind him and someone slipped out to join him. A girl with hair black as night, eyes glinting behind her unkempt fringe, and skin that was as pure and shining as the moonlight. He blinked, and before him stood Jeane, the ratty little servant girl.

"Aless," she said. "Dessert's about to be served. We need every set of hands in the kitchens." She glanced at his hands, which he kept hidden inside his pockets. "Even yours."

Aless scowled at her, but his heart wasn't in it. She looked at him for a second longer than was necessary, and he knew he saw some fleeting emotion in her eyes, _gods damn her,_ and went back the way she came.

He followed.

The Great Hall was not as crowded as it had been, or noisy, filled to the brim with laughing lords, filling their bellies with drink and the various delicacies which were brought before them, and beside them their wives or family, looking markedly less jovial than their companions. The musicians still played, but their songs had shifted from bawdy drinking songs to a slower, more elegant tune, the kind that might be danced to. Few knights stood in the hall, and all of them looked like outsiders in this world of feasts and luxuries.

To the cheers of all the guests, the dessert was rolled out on a cart, big as it was; it was an array of all sorts of dishes, fruit sweetened with sugar, side by side with bowls of molasses for dipping, tarts and pastries. Crowning it all, the centerpiece was a massive flower in the centre of the cart, each leaf a meticulously placed and coloured piece of marzipan, shaded purple and red and orange. Many gasped upon sight of it, and applauded, raising their glasses to cheer the fine chefs of Skingrad.

Aless did not enter the hall until later. He came with Jeane after the cart, carrying a large ornate pitcher of hippocras, which he served to the people who raised a voice for him. Thankfully, most of them were too drunk to recognise him or did not care. The big man, Oweyne, had fallen asleep into his food, and Aless almost laughed at the sight, but the Count's warning gaze stopped him.

He returned to the kitchens after they ran out of hippocras, but the rage had not left him. Oweyne, gods damn him, had been half-drunk and had laughed upon seeing Aless for the first time, and began to drunkenly spout tales of Gardon's lust for power, his dead wife's promiscuity, and the traitor's death in the Great Hall. Aless didn't realise his fists had been clenched until he noticed the fine polished surface of the pitcher crack beneath his grip.

_Gods damn him. Daedra take him. He deserves a slow death at the hands of whatever being would be so depraved to take him,_ he thought, _and he'd be lucky if I don't slip something into his drink to send him there._

More than once he found himself looking at the floor, wondering where it was exactly his father died. Was he standing on it, perhaps? Oweyne would know, the bastard. He thought he spied a stain that may have been dried blood, but it looked to be wine that had been spilled.

The mid-year feast ended an hour after midnight, after a spectacular performance by the Count's court mage involving conjured creatures that wisped about the room, leaving trails of glowing magicka in their wake that stayed long after the creature had vanished. Aless hadn't the faintest desire to go back into the Hall again, so he stayed in the kitchens with Jeane.

They had decided to sit, crouched down on the floor with their backs to the bench. There was no one else there but Galrot, the head chef, who was paying no attention to the pair. Some time ago she asked, simply, "What's wrong with you?"

He had felt such an intense burst of anger right then that he might have hit her, if he hadn't refrained himself. "Nothing," he growled back, successfully cowering her into submission, but was regretting it now. Aless often lost his temper around people, but rarely her. And it never felt good with her.

By that time the noises of the hall had diminished to little more than whispers, the musicians had ceased entirely, and there was no more clamour, the talking or the clashing of cups. Thunderous creaks rolled through the air as the doors of the Great Hall were opened again and again as the nobles left for their estates and visitors from other parts of Cyrodiil left for the inns.

Then the Count came into the kitchen.

Galrot, turning, saw the Count and bowed respectfully. Jeane gasped, taken aback, and Aless ... he didn't know what to think. Why on earth would the Count come here, instead of returning to his chambers?

"Alessander," the Count said, in deep tones as thick as honey. "Might I speak with you?" His eyes flicked to Jeane beside Aless, and added, "Alone."

Aless looked at Jeane apologetically, and he and the Count left the kitchens, returning to the Great Hall which was now entirely vacant. Resuming his seat at the dais, the Count levelled his gaze at Aless. "May I ask you a question, Alessander? All I request is that you answer truthfully, without deception. Now, why did you leave the Great Hall earlier?"

Aless stilled. "My lord, I … Oweyne … he spoke lies of my mother and my father. I did not wish to hear any more of it, so I left."

The Count nodded, almost imperceptibly. "I can sympathise, child. Oweyne does not make a habit of bullying children, but when he is in his cups he is more open than otherwise. He speaks of past events, and meant you no slight. Ignore him."

"My lord ..." Aless tried to quell the same irrational anger that rose in him again, as he did not want to anger the Count. "He said my mother was a whore, to my face. He said that my father was a traitor, and told the room of how he was beheaded. He shames my family name. They _laugh_ at me, the traitor's son, the broken thief –" Aless stopped suddenly.

Lord Janus Hassildor smiled sadly. "Ah, yes. Oweyn is a man who speaks fondly of the past, and men oft speak fondly of removing traitors." When Aless bristled, he amended, "I did not name your father a traitor. At the time I was in no condition to rule as Count, and so your father was put there in my place. For the actions of other men and perhaps his own stubbornness, Gardon was executed."

"My lord." Aless's voice was steel. "Is there a reason you called me here?"

"I asked you here to tell you that it was not your father's fault. He was a good man, one more at home in the battlefield than in a castle, but a good steward nonetheless. Ignore Oweyn." The Count's smile turned into a frown. "Alessander, it is a grave thing when a man abandons his post, or his duty. Such actions are met with a traitor's death. That was the death Gardon was given, and I would not wish it on you. You and all the others here are my subjects, and it is my duty to protect you, as it is your duty to serve me and all of Skingrad. Take not of that, before you decide to relinquish your duty because of anger."

Aless nodded, wooden. He didn't trust his mouth for fear of rousing the Count's anger, and if rumours spoke true – which they rarely did, because they spoke of the Count as a wielder of dark arts and a creature of the night himself – then the man seated before him held a great anger, himself.

"That is all," the Count said. He looked ready to say something else but stopped himself. The words lingered on his tongue. What came out instead was something that neither of them were quite expecting. "Alessander … I am sorry."

He all but fled.

Jeane was waiting for him in the hallway, near the stairs that led to the lower quarters. "Well?" she asked, rubbing one eye tiredly. "What did he want?"

"Nothing," Aless said, as the two descended the stairs.

Their rooms lay opposite to one another, and they seperated with a murmured prayer to aid sleep and banish nightmares. Aless collapsed onto his bed with a sigh. All of the anger had drained out of him like hippocras from a pitcher, leaving him empty and drained.

He expected to have a restless sleep, but it came easy. But his dreams did not rest, and he saw again and again the day that the Legions had come, the day his father had been killed.

The next day there was little work to be had in the kitchens, so he slipped away when they finished serving lunch to the court. Jeane was nowhere to be found, so he was alone. It was midday, and Skingrad basked in sunlight. Walking in a circuit along the wall, from north to south and back, Aless found himself walking through the market. It was rich with traders of all sorts, selling exotic fruits and nuts and treats, and at this time of year the spices that were coming in were barely a trickle, he saw several Khajiit (one recognised him and waved) and more than one Argonian. None stopped him.

Served at the inn every day at noon were free trenchers and the oils of fried meat for those that would take it, and Aless was an old patron. The owner, Balmartus, greeted him with a smile and a quick hug, and sat down with him as they spoke of days long past. The horses at the stables were old friends too, and they whinnied happily as he rubbed their snouts and fed them apples.

Aless returned to the castle after his third circuit. More than an hour he spent walking, and the kitchens would soon have need of helpers.

Upon entering the kitchens, Jeane sighed with relief. "Thank the Divines. There you are. Where'd you run off to?"

He shrugged.

Dinner tonight was kid, lightly roasted on a spit, salted and flavoured with herbs and oils, and served on a bed of vegetables, similarly done. Also cooked were small spiced sausages, charred bacon, and brown bread that had been dipped in beaten eggs and fried. Lord Hassildor was not present, but no one was surprised. He came out of his chambers for the feasts – just to ensure his court that he was still alive, he thought – but ordered the rest of his meals to be taken up to his solar.

It felt entirely normal, so Aless was surprised when the doors to the Great Hall were pushed open and a messenger ran in. His cheeks were flushed and he was wheezing, like he had run a great distance. A letter was held tightly in one hand. The messenger walked swiftly to the centre of the Hall, and said, "Where is Lord Janus Hassildor? I have an urgent message for him." One of the men of the court pulled the messenger aside.

"What's this about?" murmured Jeane, into his ear. "What kind of message?"

"I don't know," he replied, keeping his voice low.

Oweyne was present – _gods damn him, Daedra take him_ – and laughed. He was drinking again. Searching the room, his eyes found Aless and he grinned. "Send the boy up to him! Little serving boy, he is, and nothing better for him, the traitor's boy."

There was a knife on the table and Aless's hand was already clutched around it before he could think, ready to launch it at Oweyne's large and exposed neck, but Jeane's arm caught his, and she whispered, "Don't." She sounded frightened. Of what, he didn't care to think. He relaxed his hand slowly.

The messenger seemed to have taken Aless's advice, and he pressed the letter into his hand, requesting that it only be seen by the Count's eyes. Aless held it awkwardly, pinched between his second and fourth fingers. The messenger ran off.

A murmur went around the hall as Aless walked up the stairs. He caught smatterings of _Emperor_ and _deathbed_, but little beyond that. True enough, the letter bore the Emperor's seal.

Aless entered the Count's solar, carrying the letter. The Count was seated at his desk, a set of blank papers and a quill and inkpot spread out before him. He did not react to Aless's presence.

"My lord," he said, "I have a letter." That got the Count's attention. He turned his head to look at Aless, but it was a different person staring at him than the one he had spoken with last night. His cheekbones had become more pronounced, and the rest of him seemed to have melted away. Two eyes shone in their sockets. Aless stared for a moment, transfixed, and he blinked, breaking the spell.

Wordlessly, the Count took it, breaking the seal and reading it quickly. Whatever expression that had been on his face before vanished and was replaced by some twisted combination of shock and horror. He read it again, and again, making sure he had read it correctlty. "Divines," he whispered, horrified. The letter fell to the desk, forgotten.

"My lord?"

Lord Janus Hassildor couldn't look him in the eyes. "I have received summons," he said hoarsely, picking up the letter and gently closing it. "By the Elder Council. It seems that I am to participate in the choosing of Uriel the Seventh's successor."

"_What?"_ His _successor?_ Had the Emperor died? When had this happened?

"I do not know. The Emperor and his sons were attacked. By who, it does not say, but they are dead and Uriel may soon well be."

The Emperor, dead or dying. Aless's throat had gone dry. He, like all good Imperial children, had been told of the fate of the world should the Septim line be extinguished. _But should these Dragonfires fail, and should no heir of our joined blood wear the Amulet of Kings, then shall the Empire descend into darkness._ Nursery tales told of what happened before, when creatures from the darkest depths of Oblivion roamed free, but heroes had always vanquished them and forged new gates. _And what happens now? Will a hero come to close the gates?_

"My lord," Aless croaked. "If that is all." The Count didn't stop him as he left.

Back in the hall, the rumours of the Emperor's demise had already begun to circulate, and most of the court were arguing about, refusing to believe it. Jeane was silent. She waited at the bottom of the stairs to meet him. "What on earth is this all about?" she asked, walking with him. "They're saying the Emperor's dead, and his heirs are dead too."

"Yes," Aless said, thinking back to the expression of horror on Janus Hassildor's face. "The Emperor's sons are dead, but I can't speak for Uriel himself. He may still live."

_And when he dies?_ It was a question neither of them cared to think about. Because if Uriel the Seventh died, then surely the Empire would descend into chaos, just like the tales, and the forces of Oblivion would come for them all.


End file.
